


Past the Dividing Line

by from



Series: among your duties, pleasure [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dinner, M/M, Retirement, Socks, Television Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/from/pseuds/from
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is snuggling on the sofa and some days later, a dinner interrupted</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past the Dividing Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/gifts).



Lewis waved his glass of water at the local news on telly. ‘If someone had performed CPR on him, he might still be alive. A whole courtyard full of people lining up to listen to Gregorian–’ 

Hathaway shifted on the sofa, busying his fingers with the guitar. They were waiting for Match of the Day 2 and because Lewis had dragged him back to a time before the internet, the weather report for the coming week.

‘—chanting and … What?’ Lewis demanded, evidently having been taken off course. ‘Come on, out with it.’ 

‘Ambrosian, not Gregorian,’ Hathaway said, eyes on the single wrinkled shell of ear that he could see. ‘Different texts, different styles.’ 

‘Ambrosian chanting,’ Lewis repeated, sounding somehow delighted. ‘My point is – and thanks for demonstrating it for me – in this town, that means a sold-out venue. What were the odds no one knew how to perform some form of CPR?’

Hathaway huffed a sober laugh. He knew what niggled in Lewis’s mind: the picture of a world in which someone could die because no one cared enough. 

He put down his guitar. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘according to the statistics, smaller than most people would assume. A far greater number have had training than had to use it or feel ready enough to volunteer at a scene. You can’t expect it out of a passer-by, any passer-by.’

‘But we’ve had generations born into a world with CPR. It’s not the seventies anymore.’

‘Mm,’ Hathaway said, nodding. Talk of ancient decades past was more his forte. ‘You’re talking about modern CPR, of course, but I believe it was a man called Bagellardus, a professor of medicine at Padua, who suggested mouth-to-mouth as a method of resuscitation as early as the fifteenth century.’

Lewis reached out for Hathaway’s left ankle, landing home without trouble. ‘Fifteenth? Didn’t realise they already knew how our insides worked back then.’

‘They knew a few things, but not everything, no,’ Hathaway strategically conceded. ‘Bagellardus also suggested mouth-to-anus as an alternative.’

Sprays of water were jettisoned unto them both, Lewis’s hand tightening around Hathaway’s ankle. Lewis coughed and the liquid leftover in the glass washed violently over the rim.

Hathaway patted his back, chuckling as he shifted so the glass could be set down, Lewis surveyed for damage. ‘Are you all right?’ He spared his guitar a glance but it was safe in the cradle of the armchair. 

‘A bit of warning next time, James?’

‘You’re very welcome to wipe yourself on my socks,’ Hathaway said with as much honesty as could be mustered in him.

‘You’re very welcome to fetch me another drink,’ Lewis said, even as he took up the offer and rubbed his soaked arm on Hathaway’s shin, dragging the sock band against the hairs on his skin.

Hathaway stood up, swiping a kiss from wet, garrulous lips. He pulled off his socks on the way to the kitchen.

He was gathering dishtowels when he heard Lewis say from the living room: ‘So, this mouth-to-arse thing.’ 

His heart skipped a beat and oddly grew warm from it. ‘Which mouth-to-arse thing?’

There was a pause like the bedding down of cushions and legroom for two, or two and a half as Lewis would put it. 

‘Don’t make me go in there,’ Lewis finally said.

Hathaway smiled and added a bag of crisps and two bottles of beer to his loot. 

Three days later, he would discover that Bertrand Klar’s killer had been among the concertgoers in the courtyard, had pretended to be helping him whilst watching him die. Dr Hobson’s suspicions and CCTV evidence had saved the murder case. 

He brought Indian takeaway to Lewis’s and found a place on the coffee table for the new seed catalogues they’d ordered.

‘I knew something wasn’t right,’ Lewis said after Hathaway had shared what Gurdip had relayed over coffee.

They were minding their own curries, but Hathaway tore a disc of naan bread into two and passed one half to Lewis. ‘As you said, we have come a long way since Bagellardus.’

Lewis snorted. ‘That was a good one,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Hathaway agreed, chuckling to his food. ‘You can’t go wrong with facts.’ They were talismans, as far as Hathaway was concerned, in joy, in grief, in belief and disbelief.

‘Hey,’ Lewis said softly.

Hathaway turned to look and, sucking in a breath, met Lewis’s mouth over his own shoulder. It was a fervent kiss, a kind of half-forgotten ‘how was your weekend, can’t believe it’s Monday, thank god it’s Thursday, will this day ever end, last one for the week’ blast of greetings burning up and out behind it. 

Something was falling off the back of his chair; the jumper of terror from Lewis’s favourite shop, no loss. 

‘Dinner over then?’ Lewis asked, rushed but not rushing.

‘We can have seconds later,’ Hathaway suggested.

‘It’s that Bagellardus,’ Lewis admitted, louring. ‘I can’t help it.’

Hathaway raised his head. ‘I picked up the seed catalogues from my place this morning if you want to have a think first.’

‘Can I have that think in bed?’ Lewis asked, and drained his glass of wine, one hand over Hathaway’s.


End file.
